After about ten minutes he returned her to the chair and strapped her in. ‘Now for her lunch.’
‘I’ve intruded long enough,’ Henry said. ‘But there are one or two questions I need to ask then I’ll be on my way.’
‘You’re not in a hurry, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you stay for a bit. Let me feed her. Then she has her rest. Have a bite with me. It’ll only be bread and cheese but I still have one or two bottles of claret left.’
There was something almost pathetic in the change in his attitude and Henry was reminded of Clare. She had been lonely and carrying a load of guilt. Her grandfather was lonely but there was also deep unhappiness and anger. Henry thought briefly of his own circumstances and touched wood.
‘You go and have a stroll,’ Thorpe said. ‘Feeding Elizabeth isn’t a pretty sight. Come back in half an hour.’
Henry went and stood in the belvedere. Below him was the railway line and the Kennet-Avon canal. People were bustling about on narrowboats. A train clattered by. It was a normal, busy world. But up on the top of the bluff there was a different kind of life.
There was no sign of Elizabeth when he re-entered the kitchen but the scullery door was closed and he assumed she was in her bed.
They ate bread and cheese and drank claret sitting on either side of the big kitchen table. Both men were feeling more comfortable with each other and chatted about the new football season and the past cricket season. Then Dr Thorpe said, ‘Go on, ask your questions.’
‘By the way you spoke I think you assumed I knew about the fire. I don’t.’
‘I thought everyone in Kingstown knew.’
‘I was in Africa.’
‘I see. Twelve years ago next summer the club burned down. Lajos died in the fire and Elizabeth . . . well, you can see how badly she was burned. Not even the best plastic surgeons at East Grinstead could do any better than that.’
‘What was the cause?’
‘No one knows. They thought wiring.’
‘Do you have a theory?’
‘I think Lajos started it for the insurance money. He was broke by then and Elizabeth’s money had all gone. I was there that night. I’d gone to see Elizabeth. I knew she was desperately unhappy and I wanted to try one last time to see if I couldn’t influence her to leave him. No one was at home so I went to the club. The fire must have been burning for about ten minutes. She was trapped in the bar too drunk to escape. I managed to get her out but it was too late for Lajos.’
He held out his hands palms down and Henry saw the patchwork of skin created by plastic surgery on the backs. ‘Minimal compared with Elizabeth, of course.’
Henry waited for him to continue. Instead he lifted his glass and finished his wine. There was a kind of finality about the gesture and Henry knew that just as Thorpe had wanted his company, he might as suddenly want him gone.
‘Is there anything else? Anything you can recall about Jason that might help him?’
‘I try not to remember but to forget.’
He rose and Henry rose with him. ‘I have to rest now. I rest when she rests.’
‘I’m grateful that you saw me – and for the lunch.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to help,’ Dr Thorpe said. ‘It’s . . . oh hang on, there is one chap who might be able to give you some information. Jason’s coach. This was after Lajos died. He took Jason over. Became his companion and father confessor as well. I think he called himself a “sports psychologist”.’
‘Everyone has to have one nowadays, I am informed.’
‘There is a word for it . . .’
‘Guru?’
‘That’s it, God help us. Stegman. Leonard Stegman. I think he’s a South African or an Australian but came to this country a long while ago. The Lawn Tennis Association will give you his number. I won’t see you out if you don’t mind.’
As Henry was closing the kitchen door Dr Thorpe was already climbing on to his bed.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Got a minute?’ Anne said, as she opened Tom’s door and put her head round.
It had become a catchphrase to both of them.
‘Of course.’ He was looking down at the sheet of paper on which he had been writing. He shook his head slowly. ‘Sometimes even I can’t read it,’ he said.
She did not smile and he examined her closely. ‘What’s up? You look terrible.’
‘That’s how I feel.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’
‘Hilly?’
‘No, it’s Jason. I think I—’
The phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’ Tom picked it up, listened for a moment, his face falling into a frown, and said, ‘No, I can’t speak to her now. No. And please tell her not to ring me here. Well, tell her again then. Just take her number and say I’ll telephone her but that she is not to try to contact me here. Okay?’
He put the phone down. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘I think I—’ she started again.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Tom said. ‘Yes?’
Jenks came in, the diary in his hand. ‘Can we leave that for the moment, Jeff?’
Jenks looked irritated and seemed about to argue.
‘Not now,’ Tom repeated and Jenks closed the door with a bang.
Tom looked at his watch. It was past five and already dark. ‘Why don’t we go and have a quiet drink? This place is a bit like Piccadilly Circus.’
He took her to the same pub as they’d gone to before. A bright coal fire burned in the grate and they were the only customers. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘What am I drinking?’
‘Brandy and soda. It’ll steady the nerves.’
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘I’ll put it as gallantly as I can: you don’t look your usual self.’
‘I think I’ve just blown Jason’s case,’ she said. ‘And I really believed I was on top of it.’
‘You thought you could solve things for him?’
‘I suppose I did.’ She gave a slightly bitter laugh. ‘Pack up your troubles – and bring them to Annie! Except it hasn’t worked like that.’
‘It rarely does. All we can do is give it our best shot. Tell me.’
‘This may sound odd but . . . he seemed a different person today. I thought I really knew Jason. I thought he was this big uncomplicated tennis player who had been accused of something he might not have done. Someone who had been abandoned by his family, who needed sympathy and sorting out.’
‘That’s the mother in you.’
‘Well, he was a bit like an overgrown baby. The first day I saw him he was in tears.’
‘And today?’
She paused as she tried to sort out her thoughts and find the exact words. She said, ‘Today I thought for the first time that he could have done it.’
He had been a mixture of emotions; anger, suspicion, resentment. The emotions she would have expected to find in the average prisoner. They hadn’t been talking for more than a few minutes when he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the psychiatrist? The one who’s coming from Loxton. You lied to me.’
‘That’s not true, Jason, I didn’t lie.’
‘You didn’t tell me and that’s a lie by omission.’
‘Has this been bothering you? It shouldn’t, you know. He’s just another doctor. All we’re trying to do is what’s best for you.’
He looked at her scornfully. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? He’s coming from a hospital for the criminally insane. Like Broadmoor. Where they put serial killers and axe murderers and God knows who else. He’s not just another doctor. I thought you were my friend. Honest to God I thought that if there was one person I could trust it was you.’
She felt bruised.
He rolled a cigarette and lit it with a lighter she had seen before. As he raised the cigarette to his lips she noticed several circular burns on the inside of his wrist.
‘Jason, listen to me. It’s only because of what you did in the police station. I’ve spoken to Dr Melville and he says that kind of violent behaviour in a police station often ends in a request for a psychiatric report. But you don’t have to worry about it. And I am your friend. In fact I’ve been doing everything I can for you. So has my father. I told you he’d been to see Clare and today he went to see your grandfather. I haven’t deserted you and I won’t desert you and if you think I haven’t been honest with you then let me tell you the reason why.’
He was staring down at his huge hands in his characteristic way, but the bewilderment and grief that had been in his face when she had first seen him was now replaced by sullenness and anger.
‘I would have told you, you’ve got to believe that, in fact I was about to when you mentioned the letter from Margaret and the fact that she wanted a divorce. I felt I just couldn’t add to that. Not at that moment. Because you see, there are other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Things she’s accused you of.’
The heavy head came up quickly.
‘You’re not going to like this and it’s the reason I wasn’t able to find a moment to tell you. But we have to talk about it some time. I personally think they’re ludicrous but I must tell you how her mind is working.’
‘Go on.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
‘She’s got it into her head that you may have . . . interfered . . . in some way with Julie.’
‘What do you mean interfered?’
‘Sexually.’
‘Jesus!’
‘I told you it was unpleasant. But I also told you we had to deal with it.’
‘She says I abused Julie?’
‘She told my father she saw you in the bath with her. I’m sure it was absolutely innocent but she thinks there was something going on.’
‘She never said anything to me.’
‘Maybe she was too frightened to. Don’t forget you’d been rough with her.’
‘I don’t believe this is happening.’
‘Women . . . mothers . . . sometimes do become convinced of situations like this. There’s been so much publicity, so much unhappiness—’
‘Me and Julie! For Christ’s sake I love Julie! This is a nightmare.’ He thrust his head at her. ‘You believe her!’
‘Jason I—’
‘I bet you do!’
‘I’ve already said I thought the accusations were ludicrous.’
‘You keep on saying accusations. I don’t think I ever took Julie into the bath more than once. And I remember now. It was her bath time and she was awake and crying and Margaret was trying to light the bloody stove. I was already in the bath and I got out and I went into Julie’s room and picked her up and brought her back. She loved it. We played with her plastic toys. And after a while I soaped her. She had her own baby soap. And I think she rubbed her soapy hands over my chest. And Margaret came in and all she said was had I washed her properly and I said yes. So she picked her out of the bath and sat on the loo and dried her and then took her down for her supper. There was nothing more to it than that.’
‘There were other accusations.’
‘This sounds like the police station all over again. They started on about me and kids and I thought they were going to accuse me of abducting those two little girls.’
It had come too quickly. She was still trying to arrange sentences in her head and here it was.
He knew by her silence.
‘You’re kidding. Tell me this is some sort of joke.’
‘She said you were away from home both days.’
‘Oh, Jesus. Listen . . . That wasn’t unusual. We were . . . well, we were fighting a lot and I couldn’t take it so I’d get into the car and just drive and drive. Sometimes for hours.’ Abruptly he said, ‘You’re trying to railroad me into Loxton.’
‘Who?’
‘All of you.’
‘That’s nonsense. I didn’t say I believed her. I’m telling you for your own sake. She might go to the police with her suspicions. You might have to face questions about this.’
‘Where? In court?’
‘From the psychiatrist.’
‘Hey, wait one bloody minute. There was going to be a court case. I was going to be able to defend myself, right? Now you’re hedging.’
‘No, Jason, I’m not. Of course there’ll be a court case. Anyway you’re going up for remand again. Nothing’s going to happen very suddenly. You’ll be remanded again and we’ll talk and—’
‘Fuck you!’ he said. ‘I’m not talking to you or anybody.’
‘Jason.’
He looked down at his hands again.
‘Jason?’
But he was like a statue. He neither moved nor spoke.
*
‘And that’s how it ended?’ Tom said.
‘I must have tried to coax him into speaking for about ten minutes. He simply paid no attention. He was like stone. I felt dreadful. Dreadful for Jason, and dreadful that I’d screwed it up.’
‘You didn’t screw it up. Let me get you another drink.’
‘I’d rather have white wine than brandy.’
He came back and stood in front of the fire. They were still the only patrons in the snug and it was like being in a private suite.
‘What’s interesting,’ Tom said, ‘is that you say you had this feeling that Jason had changed before you told him of his wife’s accusations.’
‘I had the feeling from the moment he came in. He just seemed different to me.’
He was silent, sipping his drink. Then he said, ‘Do you think he’s a suicide risk?’
‘I didn’t, but now I don’t know. We had a kind of rapport but—’
‘Don’t blame yourself. Remember, he’d changed before you saw him.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Damn! The shops’ll be shut.’
‘Food shopping?’
He nodded. ‘I might be able to—’
‘Look, why—’
‘There’s an Indian takeaway in Castle Street, I can get something there.’
She suddenly visualised him going back to the cold dark house with Beanie his only company, eating the greasy rice out of the containers.
‘What I was going to say is why not come back and have some supper at my house? It won’t be much, my father does the shopping, but Hilly would love to have news of Beanie. And to see you, of course.’
He looked closely at her for a moment then said, ‘No, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Why don’t we have a meal in town. Let me take you to dinner.’
‘It’s a perfectly good idea. Anyway, they’re expecting me. That’s unless you’re worried about Beanie?’
‘No, Harry Joyce looks after her for me. I couldn’t manage otherwise.’
‘Well, then . . .’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
There were lights on in the house when she got there but neither her father nor Hilly was present. On the blackboard in the kitchen Henry had written: Hilly and I have gone to the fair at Petersford. Back about nine-thirty.
‘Deserted,’ spe said. ‘No matter.’ She found a bottle of wine and gave Tom a corkscrew and two glasses. She looked in the fridge. ‘I’m afraid we have a somewhat limited menu. How about smoked haddock and poached eggs?’
‘Sounds wonderful. I haven’t had it for years. Our cook used to make it for me when I came back for the school holidays.’
‘That sounds rather grand.’
‘It wasn’t really. My mother couldn’t cook. Simple as that. Either couldn’t or wouldn’t. Have you ever been to the Wye near Hay?’
She slid the haddock into the pan. ‘No.’
‘You should go one day. It’s lovely countryside.’
‘Toast?’
He sat in a kitchen chair and watched her. ‘This is good,’ he said, holding up the wine.
‘My father knows a bit about wine.’
‘I like him. He�
��s a one-off.’
‘Is your father still alive?’
‘Which father?’
She turned to look at him and saw the same flash of cynicism on his face she had seen before.
‘I had lots of fathers. One of the reasons my mother didn’t have time for cooking. She was always in bed with someone. She was an artist. A portraitist. Most of the time she went to bed with her male sitters. I assumed she wanted to discover the inner man.’
Anne decided she didn’t want the evening to become too heavy and she said, ‘What did you do while all this was going on?’
‘Rebuilt barns. How about that for a reply? I went to a school that still believed in teaching non-examination subjects. They thought it was important we should know about woodwork and restoration. My brother and I started off on our own tithe barn which my mother wanted for a studio. When other people saw it they asked us to do up theirs. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed with it, except my brother couldn’t stand what was going on at home and made a bolt for Australia.’
‘My mother was a bolter, too. She bolted from Africa. Left my father and me to cope. I can’t say I blame her. Living in tents and being bossed by Watch can’t have been much fun. So she bolted to Scotland and the arms of a laird. Are you really saying you didn’t know who your father was?’
‘Nothing as dramatic as that. I knew who he was all right. He couldn’t stand the strain of my mother’s life either and left when we were little. I don’t think it made much difference to her whether he was there or not.’
‘And you? You weren’t a bolter.’
‘No, I stayed. I didn’t much like what she was doing but I thought someone had to stay behind and look after her. She couldn’t cope very well by herself. Anyway one forgave Mother. She was amusing; the sort of person who left other people to handle her affairs.’
‘You speak about her in the past. Is she dead?’
‘No, she’s still in the same house. It’s not the sort of place one would ever want to leave if one owned it. On the bank of the river; our own stretch of fishing; a great overgrown garden. And on the far side of the river the land swelling up to a line of low hills which my brother and I used to climb when we were children.’
‘It sounds wonderful.’
Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1) Page 19
